Songs Like Tattoos
by Lady Bracknell
Summary: Remus is going mad, with only Joni Mitchell and his favourite rock for company. HBPera, set during Remus' mission with the feral werewolves.


**Disclaimer: Not JK Rowling, not even a little bit – so full credit to her for anything you recognise   
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**Author's Note: Originally written for rt challenge on Live Journal, for the prompt: blue. And for those non-Joni Mitchell fans amongst you wondering what on earth this has to do with the prompt, Blue is the name of arguably her best album, and the title of the track mentioned here. Feedback always appreciated ;) **.

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Sometimes he thinks his mind is unravelling.

Here he sits, in the drizzle, on his favourite rock, laughing to himself about the fact that he has become the kind of person who has a favourite rock.

It's not promising, he thinks, when the one thing he has going for him is a rock to sit on that's not too inconvenient a shape for his buttocks.

There's laughter from the camp in the distance, but his fades.

It's been less than three months, but he can only half remember the taste of her smile.

He's not sure if it's a good thing or not.

On the one hand, remembering too much about her isn't helpful – thoughts of her lips, and skin, and hands, keep him up at night and rob him of the precious sleep he needs to stay alert; and then when he wakes, daydreams taunt him, allowing him to picture happy endings he knows won't happen.

On the other, the exquisite, tiny details of her – the things only he would notice, know at all, are the only things he has left, the only things he can cling to to persuade himself that she was real – that they, they were real.

The whisper of her hair on his face. The curl of her fingers into his under the table at meetings. The way her laugh trailed off into a sigh when he kissed her, because when she was laughing, he couldn't resist….

He closes his eyes, and allows himself to dwell on the thought, just for a second, before the ache in his stomach gets too much.

There's a melody in his head.

It jostles for space with words like _cretin_, _moron_ and _idiot_ – all of which he's called himself on a daily basis for leaving her and agreeing to this – and others like _necessary_, _duty_ and _who else?_, _for the best_, _wouldn't have worked out anyway_, and some guff about it being better to break it off before they both got hurt –

As if he's avoided that.

The melody pokes at him.

Joni Mitchell just won't leave him alone.

He's always liked her, her and her foggy lullabies, but now there's something accusatory about her, he thinks, and he knows why.

They listened to it together, this song, eons ago when he'd believed in the future and everything had been about falling too fast and loving their loving. She teased him about having not bought a record since 1978, and he referred to most of her collection as a racket – and then discovered this album nestled amongst some records recorded by people whose names sounded like diseases, and put it on.

He presses the pads of his fingertips into his eyebrows and tries to banish the memory, because the last thing he needs to be thinking about is Tonks underneath him on the sofa and possibility and hope in the air above.

The line about songs being like tattoos swirls through his head and he can't seem to move on from it, as if she's telling him that this is it – he's stuck – because the song is branded on him.

And Tonks is too.

She's etched right through him, there's no escape – not that he's sure he wants there to be.

He doesn't know at all anymore which half of himself to listen to, the half that believes steadfastly in what he's doing, or the half that wants to run away, find her, beg forgiveness, abandon his mission and watch the world go to hell with her in his arms.

This is it, he thinks. This is how he'll feel, forever: torn, and lost, and just a little bit nuts.

He almost laughs at the thought.

He wonders if the reason that he feels like his mind is unravelling is that she was his way of making sense of the world, and without her, it just doesn't.

Either that, he thinks, or he really is going mad here, with only Joni Mitchell and his favourite rock for company.

The drizzle turns to rain, and he gets to his feet, making his way back to the limited shelter of the trees, humming the tune that's been after him all morning, and thinking that he has no real idea which of the two possibilities is the most frightening.


End file.
